


cheers

by curtailed



Series: power couple fics [3]
Category: DCU, Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics), Nightwing (Comics)
Genre: Coffee Shops, Holidays, Hostage Situations, M/M, Power Couple, Violence, Weird Fluff, ambushes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:42:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27910945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curtailed/pseuds/curtailed
Summary: All holidays need a hostage, and Dick resigns himself to his annual fate.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Slade Wilson
Series: power couple fics [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2022971
Comments: 12
Kudos: 117





	cheers

**Author's Note:**

> the setting is similar to "gamble" but it's a different story.

"You know bad guys don't always hang out at bars, right?" It's a bit difficult to keep the phone propped near his ear while he mops up the bathrooms, his internal voice begging his body not to let it slip in the growing puddle of filthy water, but Dick's an acrobat first and part-time janitor/barista second. "I've caught a dealer at a toy store last week. She was trying to smuggle pills into a jack-in-the-box."

Slade's hum is barely audible over the phone, but it's there. 

"And last _last_ week, I busted some gang members at IHOP while I was working as a waiter."

"It's illegal to tamper with the food, Grayson," Slade says. Judging by the background sounds, Dick can guess that he's driving a car somewhere. 

"I didn't do that. I caught 'em in the bathroom. Besides, it's IHOP - there's not going to be a huge difference in the food." Speaking of bathrooms, Dick tries not to wince as something wet and brown-green clings on the head of the mop. He hopes it's just mould. Even with the amount of scent he spritzes over the walls, the heavy, wet smell of sewage and waste never fully disappears. He feels like he's about to puke right into the bucket, joining with whatever the mop picked up on. The fact that all of the toilet paper is stamped with small smiling Christmas trees does nothing to lift his mood.

"Admirable - although," and if Dick didn't know Slade the way he does, he wouldn't have caught that single moment of hesitation, "is there really a reason you're calling me? Just to share tales of your unlikely escapades?"

_I miss you._

Dick doesn't have that courage, so he says instead, "Are you coming by to Bludhaven anytime soon?"

"Would you like me to?"

_Yes._ "No," he states firmly, tugging up his bright pink shirt collar up to his nose in order to block out the smell. His eyes are already watering from it. "I'm giving you preemptive. You're not going to find any contracts worth your time here."

"I'm sure Desmond - "

"They're all on _me,_ jerk." Dick's heart always skips a little here, anticipating the very small, lethal possibility that Deathstroke _does_ take a contract on him. The day that comes, he won't even have time to get up from the bed. "If you want criminal competition in your least favorite city, be my guest."

"Compelling," Slade drawls out, "but if it makes you feel better, I won't stir anything up. It's already going downhill on its own."

Dick grits his teeth at that, and he has to remind himself that he's still in the bathroom, so he can't legally smash anything. "I told you for the millionth time, _Deathstroke,_ I'm not giving up on this city."

He hangs up at that, feeling pettily victorious, before realising he was the one to call Slade in the first place. Talk about starting a fight and then running. He shoves the mop under the sink, determined not to think on whatever's clinging onto the drains. 

It's _always_ like this. Sometimes he can talk to the man like...well, not exactly an _equal,_ but at least a fellow person outside of the law. And sometimes Slade throws in these casual comments that painfully remind Dick of the gulf between them, how Slade is completely content on letting a city burn so long that he gets his pay. It never ceases to surprise him, for some reason. 

"Grayson?"

He pokes his head out of the bathroom, the smell of something not resembling a cadaver refreshing enough to make him weak in the knees. "Jessie."

"You've got the counter."

" _Thank_ the -- I mean," he amends, watching Jessie's eyebrows climb to her hairline, "I've cleaned the stalls. All of them. They're clean."

"You don't have to lie to me, you know."

Besides the fact that the air doesn't kill him from the inside, the counter has its own advantages. It's got a good view of the street, for one, especially the junction of two alleys crookedly situated behind a hardware store. Dick doesn't know how many times he's stopped muggings at a place where the muggers thought they were out of sight. It's almost embarrassing.

"Strawberry iced frappe," he calls out to the back, trying not to remark on how there's people requesting ice in their drinks despite being below freezing outside. 

The role of barista is a bit more fluid. He drifts to coffee pots, deftly pouring cream and milk in ingrained motions that Alfred had _very firmly_ instilled in him after that one incident. If he thinks hard enough, he can still see Bruce coughing out coffee dregs into the sink. It's a memory blurred by age, softened at the edges, but it never fails to make him warm and content.

_One more gang,_ Dick promises himself, scrawling _Shawn Tsang_ across the plastic cup. The girl who takes it from his hand gives him a large wink. _One more cluster of criminals. Then I'll go visit them._

It's a little like an internal quota. 30 muggings, minimum; he easily clears that on a nightly basis. Foil one supervillain's plot weekly; a little less easy. It has him limping to his sad excuse of an apartment and trying not to curse when he bandages himself. Keep mercenery out of town at intervals of months; the hardest of all. The job keeps his hands busy here, at least - he'll have to drop and shift when he returns home, maybe set up spot at the hardware place. His hands are burnt several times from handling the pot, and there's a lovely moment of his coworker accidentally spilling pink tea down the back of his shirt. It's almost as unpleasant as being shocked with a taser. _Almost._

"Jessie," he pleads, giving her wide, innocent eyes that make grown men weak in the knees. Or rather, one dirty old man who'd laugh himself to death at its sight. Jessie is similarly uncowed. "Can I take my break now? Please?"

"Three."

"Come on -- "

"Nope," Jessie reiterates, popping the _p_ with a fleck of saliva.

Dick keeps his sufferings to himself. The alley junction is still clear, although he's thankful of Jessie keeping mark on the time. He punches in orders, stacking bills like they're letters, and tries not to fidget as the clock grows near. Customer five barely graces him with a smile before shuffling off to the corner. Customer six is insistent on the sugar and cream ratios and takes her seat next to number five. Dick's crouching under the counter, trying to find a new pen, when he hears customer seven open the door. He straightens quickly, narrowly avoiding banging his head against the edge.

"Hey, what can I..."

He trails off, since that's the natural reaction to possess when a world-hunted mercenary waits at the front counter. 

Slade does a decent job of covering himself - grey overcoat, a scarf covering his nose and mouth - and Dick's reflexes kick in, even as his brain still goes 404. "...get for you? We also have a decaf menu."

Maybe he _did_ hit his head. To his credit, Slade doesn't laugh. He looks like any other deadbeat dad wandering in to swipe a coffee, although Dick's willing to bet he's got an entire armoury in those pockets. Dick glances around, not sure if he wants people nearby or not. His heart beats loudly in his ears, and suddenly his throat is dry.

"What would you recommend?" Slade asks, all innocently.

Dick feels like his smile can probably break glass. "Right now? At _this moment?_ I have no idea."

"Hm." Slade has the gall to lean in closer, although still a respectable distance, and even taps his fingers along the countertops. Dick leans back by an infinitesimal amount, trying to ignore how his heart leaps into his throat. He can smell the faint whiffs of smoke and fresh cold snow from Slade's coat, and it reminds him of a forest expedition he once had to go on, where the night was only thawed off by a single pit fire.

"Flat white."

Dick blinks, and he's not sure if it's in surprise or irritation. " _What?_ "

"Just a flat white."

Dick flushes in embarrassment at his outburst, feeling vulnerable in uniform and apron. Slade must have picked up on it as well, since he leans even further forward, eye dragging up his torso and fixating on his little nametag. He must be grinning like a cat under the scarf. Dick tears his gaze away and punches buttons into the register, probably with more force than necessary.

"$3.95," Dick carefully says, making sure his smile is as sweet and forced as it should be. Slade smoothly slides a five-dollar bill across the counter.

"Keep the change."

"Yeah," Dick bites out, "I will. I'll get your drink to you _soon enough._ "

_Now_ Slade laughs, a quiet sound that fills Dick with a tingle of warmth, before drawing away. He seats himself near the side window, and Dick notes that it's right where the alley junction is in clear view. Dick clenches his jaw at that.

_He must be here for a mission._

At least it's his break soon. He pours the milk into a pitcher a little more forcefully than acceptable, droplets splashing on the metal, and tries to soothe himself with the sound of bubbles and frothing as he dials up the stream wand. It's just a few more minutes. He just needs to finish through this order. Then he can get out, confront Slade, or...or something. Maybe. His hands shake a little.

"Was that your father?"

Dick jumps a bit; he isn't even aware of Jessie walking near. A bit of froth nips at his fingers, and he pushes down a curse from the heat. Jessie glances at him, and then verbally backtracks at whatever expression Dick must have had on his face. "Sorry. I didn't mean to make that assumption."

Dick smiles thinly. "Yeah -- "

"Your _grandfather,_ then. With all that white hair."

He'd rather swallow live eels than have this conversation. Scratch that, he _has_ swallowed live ones before on a mission, but so far not many people have tried to corner him on his on-and-off partner potentially being related to him. "Even less close," he remarks, trying not to gag at Slade filling in any sort of familial role. Slade wasn't _that_ old, Jesus -- or maybe he was. Vietnam War and all. Still, whatever serum that had been injected in his veins (Mirakuru? Slade had never elaborated, and Dick wasn't sure he wanted to know) had made him look in his late thirties, early forties at most, although the rough white texture of his hair was at odds with the relative youth. 

"Grandfather-in-law."

Dick holds back a grimace. "If that's your conclusion, sure."

Jessie lets out a short, sharp burst of laughter. "Alright, alright, I won't nitpick. Finish up the order and you can go take your break." She walks away, leaving Dick to miserably suck on his fingers to soothe the slight burn. He pours the half-assed froth into the espresso, letting it swirl, and wishes he were anywhere else.

Slade looks as smug as he does any other day when Dick walks over to his table. The other man's sitting with one foot on the other knee, prime prick pose, stowing away his phone as Dick comes closer. Dick sets down the cup with an exaggerated gentleness so that Slade can't sue him for poor handling or something. 

"Thank you," Slade says almost too blithely, taking the cup with the same exaggeration.

"No problem." Dick can roll with this. "How are you enjoying the place so far?" _Why the hell are you here?_

"It's fairly nice." Slade sips at his coffee, although Dick wonders if he actually lets any of it slide down his throat. "It's a bit of a volatile atmosphere, though, but I can get used to it."

Dick narrows his eyes, still keeping his smile. "Oh? Why's that?"

"Well, there's a bit of a rumour on a local hero here." Slade's grin is absolutely shit-eating, although something about the way his eye crinkles makes it almost look sincere. "Heard a lot of good things about him, at the very least."

Dick straightens, doing his best not to do something unspeakably stupid - like slap a customer across the face, for example. "I hope you enjoy your drink, then."

_He's trying to tell me something._ Dick wonders why Slade couldn't have just said it on his phone, unless he _wants_ Dick to be caught off-guard - which is also a completely viable option for him - but that doesn't explain why Slade came directly here, out of all places. He's not even going to question where or when Slade knew to find him; the man probably keeps more tabs on him than Arkham on the Joker. Alone in the backroom, Dick changes out of his stained clothes quickly, wondering if he should get his spares from his backpack or - his fingers brush his Nightwing uniform - something else.

_It's a bit of a volatile atmosphere._

Dick frowns, his fingers stalling on fabric.

Was Slade here for a mission? There's absolutely no reason he would turn up in a coffee shop, then, especially if it's an in-out kill that needs to be done faster than Nightwing could catch up. Business meeting? Doesn't match. Slade's never cared about business, or corporations, only the money that gets wired to his account. 

His fingers rub along the texture.

It's not a friendly call either. Dick has his share of _calls_ from Slade, usually with the man crawling through his apartment window and then sucking him off in the kitchenette, but that's not the wavelength here. The hairs on Dick's skin rises, just a little -

A scream shatters through the air.

Dick doesn't ever recall changing his clothes so fast - he's still tugging on his suit, plastering the mask over his face, even as another scream follows. It's lower in volume. No gunshots, but there's glass shattering.

The backroom door bursts open.

"You!" a hooded figure snaps, poised to flicking the safety off. "Get on the ground, or I'll sh- "

Dick slides across the floor, swiping a kick at the figure's legs. In a smooth, practised movement, he's grabbing their shoulder, twisting down the upper half of their body until they're forced into a painful crouch on the ground. The gun clatters on the tiles. The gunman doesn't even have time to shout before Dick strikes them at the neck, knocking them out cold. He's not even out of breath as he stands.

_Hostage. Hostage situation._

He slides out the cartridge quickly, dissembling the gun until it's nothing but useless metal pieces. He can't barge in right away. He can see silhouettes behind the counter, several of his coworkers whimpering in fear as the same hooded, black-uniformed people crowd them along the tiles with pistols and knives. No shots yet. No blood. Dick swallows, adrenaline flaring up in his veins. 

He needs another way in.

Somehow, the employer's exit isn't barred - they must have come from the front, which explains the sound of glass - and Dick bites back a curse at how hard the cold hits him. It's like a long, lethal needle, sinking straight into his sinew and marrow, coating each inch of muscle and bone with crystalline frost. The duffel bag of his clothes gets tossed on the ground; Dick palms his escrima sticks, edging along the window. No signs of police yet. The station's far, way too far, with _at least_ a minimum of fifteen minutes. They could wipe out the entire cafe in fifteen minutes if they wanted to.

Dick freezes in his tracks.

_Slade._

Slade's here. He feels so stupid for even forgetting him - he just never lumps the other man into the "civilian" column, even though technically that's what Slade Wilson, customer, is - and his grip tightens on his stick. Was this part of Slade's plan, to use the café as a hostage? Would he sink that low?

_Why?_

There's not much snow in the sky, but a few flakes graze along his wrists. Dick slides closer to the side window. He needs a way to get in - if the police come, it'll turn into a firefight - but he can't risk smashing through. They might just kill someone. And he can't wait for Slade to act in self-defense, or else both sides would suffer fatalities.

Instead, he presses his ear to the window frame, trying to catch any sign of dialogue. Someone must have broke through that window as well.

"...tell Madrigal that Stockpol wants the signature," a voice is saying, flat and cold from a modulator. "Come on, do it."

There's a moment of silence.

_"DO IT!"_ There's a loud slam, like someone striking the tabletop with a gun.

"I...I..." the voice sounds like they're about to cry. "I don't - ! I don't have Mayor Madrigal's number!" It's a young boy's voice, probably in their mid-teens. 

"Then _dial it in!_ Six." When there's no immediate response, there's another loud smack. Dick clenches his jaw, anger thrumming in his limbs. "I said _six!_ "

There's a small beeping sound, along with a trembling sniffle.

"Zero. Nine. Five - hurry the _fuck_ up, brat, press faster - two. Four." More numbers are rattled off, cold and venomous, and Dick wishes he could just squeeze their throat. He dares to peek in the window.

The sight catches his breath. 

Closest to him, near the glass shards, is a hooded person, looming over a teenage boy sprawled on the floor. Thin tendrils of blood pool on the tiles, mixing with spilled coffee, and the boy's trying not to sob as he holds the phone in plain view of his captor, pressing in the numbers. Dick scans the rest of the cafe. The baristas are crowded behind the counter, manned by two gunmen; two others focus on four customers in the corner. And the sixth gunman...

Dick's throat closes up at the scene. Slade's still sitting at the table, looking like for all in the world a normal person with untouched coffee, but the sixth gunman has a sleek, deadly pistol pressed right against his skull. If the bullet fired, it would go straight through the brain. For a moment he wonders why Slade's been specifically targeted, and then he sees the body of a gunman sprawled on the floor, arm and leg bent in a sickening shape. Slade seems utterly relaxed, like he's lost deep in thought.

_Shit._ Dick withdraws, trying to gather his thoughts. It can't be the first time Slade's ever been in that situation, but Dick's not sure if even Slade could survive a bullet through the skull. And even if he does, a headshot will still cripple him, leaving his body vulnerable to the others. And if Slade doesn't act quickly or accurately enough, the others might just unload their clips into the civilians.

A snowflake lands on his nose. Dick doesn't bother to wipe it off, instead opting to adjust his grip on the sticks.

He can't focus on Slade. Slade's a soldier; severe injury has always been a risk, and his healing factor is enough of a safety net. He needs to get the other civilians out. And if Slade's able to help him out - _nonlethally_ \- then all the better.

If not, he's fought through worse before.

_"Hello?"_ Mayor Madrigal's voice cracks through the speakers, warped and tinny. _"Who is this? Who's calling?"_

"Madrigal," the gunman sneers, contempt audible even through the modulator. "Right now you're talking to the number of a little kid in a café outside of downtown. I've got some of my people there. Does that make sense? Do I need to repeat that?"

_"I don't know - "_

"Stockpol wants the signature _pronto._ All five of them. You knew this was coming, Madrigal, so don't even sound surprised."

Madrigal's voice turns indignant. _"I am not going to sit there and comply under some criminal thug request -_ "

The gunman aims his gun and fires.

Only instincts hold Dick back - the bullet crunches through the floor, leaving a sizzling black mark. The boy's scream is raw and ragged as he scoots away from the mark, a mere inch from his own foot. The other customers try to hold back their gasps and screams, with varying levels of success. Only Slade remains quiet. The boy freezes when the gunman trains the pistol on him next.

"Next bullet goes through the boy," the gunman says quietly, enunciating each word. "We know you won't care if the whole café gets slaughtered, but for the sake of your public image - I'd recommend you do what we ask."

Slade still hasn't moved, but Dick spots it. Slade rests his hand on his leg, his fingers moving very slightly.

Madrigal's voice has a notable tremor. _"Y-Yes. I understand."_

_Morse code,_ Dick realises. The fingers are slow, subtle taps, almost absentminded. _Tap. Pause. Two taps._ More follow. 

_L I G H T_

"Don't hang up now," the gunman continues. "We have plenty of time- "

Dick moves, flashbangs in hand.

Three burst along the floor, even as Dick smashes through the remnants of the glass window, grabbing the teenage boy off the floor and practically chucking him through the open gap. He'll apologise for the scrapes later. Screams fill the room, but no gunshots yet - Dick doesn't know if it's because of morality or pragmatism, but he's not going to stop and ask. He chucks a birdarang at the main ceiling light.

The bulb bursts, pops, sparking even as glass showers over the floor. The air smells of sweat and coffee and cold air. A gun goes off - more screams - and the chair behind him gets one leg cracked off.

"It's Nightwing!" someone snarls. "It's-"

Dick doesn't pause to think. One of the gunmen stationed at the counter aims their gun; Dick vaults over the register and pastry stand, and socks him hard across the face. The bullet smashes through a mess of dough. Dick kicks at their shoulder, even as the baristas began fleeing towards the backroom. The other gunman has already drawn out a truncheon, swinging at him in hard, ferocious movements.

_Don't focus on them._ Dick leaps back out, jumping across the tables towards the corner. There's no time to withdraw more from his belt, so he scoops up coffee and half-eaten pastries and _chucks_ them at the two other gunmen, even as his boots slide across films of grease and oil. One hard kick across the face - the gun fires so close to his ear that his eardrums ring, but then he's wrenching the arm back so that the next shot hits right through the other gunman's foot. A shout of pain cracks through the air.

"Get _out!_ " Dick shouts at the customers, struggling to pull down the other person's weight. "Run! Run for the streets-"

A bullet clips his arm. Pain flares up in a sharp red spike, but Dick knows his bullet wounds. It's not fatal. He ducks and kicks over the table, the plastic screeching across tile even as bullets pepper through the surface. One of them come at him with a pair of wickedly sharp machetes. 

Dick dodges, drawing out his sticks. The adrenaline makes every movement ragged and vivid, like watching a movie at high-res, and it's almost painfully easy to flip over, plant a boot in the other's spine, sending them sprawling to their knees. They're afraid to shoot at their own members. There's four left in sight. Dick doesn't even hesitate; he runs across the tables, feeling a bit like he's flying, and crashes right into their midst. 

"Shoot him!" someone hollers. Sweat beads at Dick's temples, despite the cold outside, but he can only think of knee and neck and the fragile bones of wrists. One more down. Three to go. They're well-trained, but not professional. A boot plants a kick in his stomach, and he wheezes, his arm throbbing up in sympathetic pain. He grabs a chair and _throws._

It cracks across the other gunman with an ear-splitting sound. Two. Two rush at him. He buries himself into the motions, and he's distantly aware he's fighting much more viciously, like a feral animal left uncaged, but then he spots one of the customers still hunched along the wall, and desperation drives his movements. One of them slumps across the upended chair even as he scissors the other one's neck with his legs, yanking the gunman down into the mess of foods and liquids and ruined tables. Before they can even think to get up, Dick punches them across the face.

" _Stop._ "

The one aiming at Slade hasn't moved at all, only pressing the barrel in further.

Slade's eye meets Dick's. 

"Move, and I'll shoot him."

"You didn't shoot the civilians then," Dick says, his ribs aching a little, even as icy dread floods his veins. Bodies lay around him. "You've already caused enough pain and stress. This place has nothing to do with Madrigal."

"Not a problem," the gunman snaps. "My point is, you take one more step - and this man's brains will get blown all over the table."

Slade still doesn't move, but it looks like his eye crinkles a little - in boredom or amusement, he can't exactly tell.

"Help me, Nightwing," Slade deadpans. He's not even trying to sound scared. "I need to be rescued here." The gunman presses the gun harder in, and Slade falls silent.

_He's a criminal,_ a voice chides Dick. _A criminal worse than all the ones here._ But that voice is something Dick has long ago squashed, long before he even fell into bed with Slade, and it doesn't matter now. A few more customers are at the corner, but there's not an immediate danger for them.

"Whatever Stockpol has to do with the mayor," Dick begins again, struggling to keep his voice steady, "again, it doesn't need to have civilians hurt. Leave them out of this."

The gunman considers him.

"...no," they say slowly, like they've just woken up. "No, I don't think we will."

Dick barely realises he's moving - horror, anger, fear rise in a terrible paralysing wave even as he lunges. He thinks he can see everything in slow motion. The index finger closing around the trigger, the scrape of bullet grinding against metal - Slade shifting ever so slightly, like he's preparing to - 

Everything dissolves into motion.

Dick can't move that fast - but _Slade_ can. The other man's hand snaps up in a motion like lightning, wrenching the gunman's wrist down and slamming it on the table, The shot punches through the wood, blowing a hole into the floor, but then Slade's already grabbing the gunman by the shoulders and practically _suplexes_ them onto the tabletop. 

The gunman struggles to get up, hands shaking on the gun -- and then Dick's leapt over, striking him hard across the face.

"I _said,_ " Dick snarls, hitting the gunman again at the temple, "no _civilians._ " 

The gunman collapses onto the table, unconscious. Blood trails a little out of their mouth, staining the fabric of the hood - Dick stands there for a moment, breathing hard, adrenaline still coursing through his veins. He's not sure _why_ he's so angry, not when he's met and fought hundreds of people like the gunman before him, but he doesn't linger on it for long. Not when he can hear the faint buzz of sirens coming close, red and blue streaking across the curbside.

"Slade -- " he begins, but then there's the soft cry of a kid, and Dick tears away from the sight of Slade standing over the gunman. A mother and her baby son. He's wailing, squirming and writhing, even as his mother tries to shush him. She flinches as Dick draws closer.

"You - you - " the mother stammers, eyes wide and fearful. Dick doesn't even want to know what he looks like, with blood and other substances stained across his suit. He'll have to thoroughly wash it later. "I - please don't - "

"It's alright, miss," he says, putting on his best smile even if it's practically polar to what he's feeling right now. "Are you okay? Are you or your kid hurt anywhere?"

The woman shakes her head, blonde hair swinging about her shoulders. Dick offers a hand, pulling her to her feet. The baby's cries gurgle into wet, slurpy noises.

"The police should be coming soon," Dick says, walking her to the door. There's a few more customers still milling outside, like they haven't decided whether to run or stay. In the distance, he can hear the faint buzz of sirens piercing through the cold air. He glances back at the café - it's an absolute mess, with the furniture scattered and glass shards spilled all over the floor, but the civilians are safe. That's all that matters.

The woman still stares at him, although the fear has changed into wariness. He turns to go, but a hand catches his arm.

"Thank you, Nightwing," the woman whispers.

Dick's smile this time is a little easier to come. 

The store's empty now. Slade's gone - even the coffee is missing - and the side windows are already shattered, so Dick crawls through them and into the alley, his head reeling a little from the smell of stale coffee to cat piss. He'll never get used to it.

Quickly he changes, throwing a worn jacket and slacks over his suit even as the cold air bites into his skin. Then he zips up his duffel bag, moving away from the main street as he hears the sounds of police officers shouting and yelling. The alleys narrow and widen, sink into shadow, and all Dick can think of was that high, sharp moment of hopelessness, when he really thought that - he really thought that Slade would die -

"Dick."

Dick's body reacts before his brain does, but Slade simply sidesteps his punches and kicks his knee. Dick stumbles, scowling at Slade even as a flutter of snow sprays across both of them. They're behind a store; he can hear the faint tinny strands of Christmas music, voice off-key and all-around horrible.

"You didn't have to kick that hard," he mutters, rubbing a hand on his knee. "Or sneak up on me, for the matter."

"Sorry." Slade doesn't look like particularly apologetic. He barely looks mussed from the fight at the café, preferring to amble along the alleyways. Dick instinctively follows after him, the aches finally catching up to his body. There's probably bruises all over his torso by tomorrow. "I have to say, though...does this normally happen at this time of the year? Or was this a holiday special?"

Dick bristles at the laughter in Slade's voice, and something snaps inside him. Or maybe literally snaps. He wouldn't know.

"I thought you were going to _die._ "

"I might have," Slade concedes, and Dick realises the other man is still holding his flat white. Slade takes a sip. "I've been shot in the head before-" he gestures to his missing eye, "-but so far I've been lucky enough not to get it through the brain stem. As long as I still have cells functioning, my brain spits out the bullet after a couple of minutes."

Dick listens to him rattle off the facts like a kid at a school presentation. "But-"

"Didn't know about this one," Slade admits, draining the coffee and throwing the cup to the side. Dick doesn't have the energy to berate him for littering. "I probably could've stopped them before they got close, but there were plenty of other people around." He flashes a wolfish grin at Dick. "And you'd be all upset if any of the others got hurt, wouldn't you?"

Dick blinks up at him, still trying to process Slade's words.

"You didn't fight back for me?"

"When you put it like that," Slade intones, "it sounds downright sappy, kid."

Dick doesn't know what to respond. Some part of him reels up in horror - that Slade wouldn't blink an eye over innocent lives lost, so long as it doesn't interfere, and there's a smaller part of him that relishes in the gesture. He should have known by now - Slade's affection is almost alien, not able to comprehend or care, but he's drawn to it like prey to an anglerfish's light. If he were to die one day by the hands of a criminal, Slade wouldn't hesitate in slaughtering them where they stood. It's probably as closest to genuine attachment as Slade can give.

Dick releases a slow, trembling breath, watching a white puff cloud the air. The air's fresh. Sharp. They move out onto the streets, towards the car park. He should probably ask himself why he's following Slade instead of - well, doing anything else. 

"So _what_ were you here for, then?"

"Getting a coffee."

Dick snorts. "Yeah, and I'll actually get a pay raise one day. I know you only import deluxe from the other side of the world."

"Kona. And only three times." 

Dick tries to keep the smile off his face. "What's the real reason?"

"I waas tracking Stockpol." Dick stiffens immediately, and while Slade makes no rush to explain there's a slight edge in his tone as he continues, "I didn't know what they were planning, but my employers wanted to do some recon. I figured I could stalk them around their warehouses for a bit."

"Do you actually expect me to swallow that coincidence?"

"Yes," Slade says, without preamble. "I would have told you otherwise."

Dick studies Slade's face, searching for a lie or mis-truth, but Slade's face gives nothing away.

"A coincidence," he repeats.

Slade slides a hand in his hair and nudges his head back, kissing him hard and deep on the mouth. Dick's defences immediately lowers, his body instantly settling as he loops his arms around Slade's neck to drag him closer. He whimpers softly as their tongues meet, tracing each other's mouths, and even in the cold a warm feeling tingles deep in his abdomen. He feels more than hears Slade's groan as they separate, breathing hard.

"I did want to visit you," Slade begins, tracing a thumb over Dick's cheekbone. Dick leans into the touch.

"Okay," he whispers into Slade's palm.

"You're going back to Gotham." It wasn't a question.

Dick slowly draws away, already missing the warm touch of Slade's hand. It must be from holding the cup. "I - yeah. I promised myself I would. It's just for the winter."

Slade frowns slightly, tucking his hands into his coat's pockets. He looks so _normal,_ genuinely like a civilian, that Dick's heart hurts a little. 

"Stay with me."

"...what?"

"You know I have a safehouse here." Slade carefully dislodges a flake of snow from his eyepatch. "You can stay there."

"We don't even live -- "

"You filter in and out of my safehouse so many times that I've bought you your own set of utensils and mugs. There's a closet with your bloodstained clothing that you wash every other weekend." Slade gives him a look. "You can afford spending a few days with me before going back to Gotham."

"I'm not _staying_ there, Slade. I just miss my family."

"And I'm not trying to intrude in that." Slade pauses, heading towards a grimy sedan in the corner. Dick winces at the sight, adjusting the strap of his duffle bag, and chooses to follow. He shuffles into shotgun, and Slade backs out the car slowly. He can't help but note that the spot provides a clear vantage of the entire boulevard.

"Okay," he says again, not sure if he intended for the word to slip out. He doesn't see it, but he knows that Slade must have smiled - not the nasty one he gives when Dick beats him down on a rooftop, blood staining his teeth, but the small one that's ten times more sincere. The engines hum under the seats as Slade eases the car onto the street. Dick can still spot the police lights glimmering over the café.

_And,_ he thinks, all he is doing is making the holidays safer. Gotham already gets crazy enough at Christmas; and Dick is just doing one public service atop another. If Slade's not on the streets, he can't kill anyone. If he doesn't kill anyone, then people can actually _enjoy_ a holiday. It's that simple.

Slade's hand traces his lightly, the car smelling faintly of smoke, even as the streets blur.

Another public service. Dick can't exactly hide his smile either, so he rests his head on the window and watches the city streak by.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the last fic in the collection for the year...I plan to finish Beacon after that (please check it out! it's my longest fic in the fandom so far). For upcoming works to this collection:
> 
> -probably "the bad guys win" since this one was on the fluffier side  
> -soulmates au? probably soulmates au  
> -a stand-alone sequel to "Beacon"
> 
> I'm planning to switch between lighter and darker tones for each addition, so...heads up on that. But these are all for the next year :)
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! Have a great holiday.


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